A prim, rather stuffy male voice asked me who was speaking. I told him, and he said, “You’re a detective?” and I thought: No, I’m a horse’s ass. But I said, “Yes, that’s right. May I help you?”
“My name is George Hickox. I represent Mr. Clyde Mollenhauer.”
The inflection he put on the second name said that I was supposed to recognize it. But I had never heard of anyone named Clyde Mollenhauer. Or, for that matter, anyone named George Hickox.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Mollenhauer has need of a private security guard. Do you do that sort of work?”
“I have in the past, yes.”
“Would you be available this coming Saturday?”
“For how many days?”
“Just Saturday.”
“Let me check my calendar,” I said. My calendar was as sterile as the office, but you never want to sound too eager. I sat holding the phone for fifteen seconds,- then I said, “Saturday looks free, yes. What sort of security service are we talking about, Mr. Hickox?”
“I’d prefer to discuss that in person, if you don’t mind. I could stop by for an interview later this afternoon.”
Interview. My, my. “That would be fine. What time would be convenient for you?”
“Three o’clock.”
“I’ll expect you then.”
“Yes,” he said and hung up without adding a good-bye.
The telephone rang again twenty minutes later, while I was drinking coffee and preparing invoices and strongly worded letters for a couple of dead-beat clients. You get a few like that—people who hire you and then decide that the work you did was unsatisfactory, or who just don’t like to part with their money. The amounts owed me on these two cases were less than two hundred dollars each, but the debts had been outstanding for months. Either they paid up immediately or I would have to take them to small-claims court; that was what I told each of them in my strongly worded letters.
This call was from an attorney named Adam Brister, whom I did not know. He said he had got my name from another lawyer, one I did know and had done some work for in the past, and could I come by his office in an hour to discuss a small investigative matter. I said I could, took down his address, and thanked him for calling me. I didn’t bother to ask him what sort of investigative matter he had in mind; a lot of my business comes from attorneys—small stuff, mostly, bread-and-butter cases—and when one of them contracted me I pretty much knew what to expect.
The job Adam Brister had for me turned out to be typical enough. His office was on Clement Street, out near the park, and he was young, brisk businesslike, and greedy-eyed. He sat me down in his client’s chair and laid a glossy color photograph of a woman in front of me. While I was looking at the photo he got straight to the point “The woman is Lauren Speers,” he said. “Did you know the name?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Well, she’s a local socialite—worth severe hundred thousand dollars, all inherited money She has quite a few important friends—politicians, actors, capitalists—and she travels con stantly. The jet-set type. Very hard to locate unless she wants to be located. I’m sure you know what I mean.”
I nodded. The woman in the photograph had striking red hair and green eyes and was beautiful enough if you liked them forty and dissipated. Booze or drugs, or maybe just her jet-set life-style, had taken a pretty stiff toll; in another few years she would be fat and blowsy, and her beauty would be nothing but a memory.
“She is also a reckless person,” Brister said, “especially when she’s been drinking. She drives a Porsche and she’s had several accidents; the only reason she’s kept her license is that she has those influential friends.”
I nodded again and gave him back the photograph.
“A few weeks ago,” he said, “she sideswiped a car belonging to a client of mine, Vernon Inge. Hit-and-run. Mr. Inge got her license number and reported the incident to the police, but of course they haven’t done much. Speers has dropped out of sight; no one knows, or owns up to knowing, where she is.”
I knew what was coming, now. “Your client is bringing a damage suit against her, is that right?”
“Yes. He suffered a severe whiplash as a result of the accident, and he has been unable to work since. The papers have all been filed and a court date arranged; it’s a simple matter of finding Speers and serving her with a subpoena. That is where you come in.”
Uh-huh. And so much for the glamorous role of the private detective in modern society. No rich client, no smoky-hot liaison with a beautiful woman, no fat fee. Just a skinny standard fee to track down a woman who apparently moved around more than the governor, hand her some papers, listen to abusive language—they always throw abusive language at you—and then exeunt and on to the next skinny standard fee. Well, that was all right. Better a job like this than no job at all. The state of my finances being what they were, I was in no position to be picky.
Brister leaned forward and studied me with his greedy eyes. One long look at those eyes told me that Vernon Inge’s damage suit was a whopper; if Brister had anything to say about it, Lauren Speers was going to pay through the nose for her latest peccadillo.
He said, “Do we have an arrangement?”
“We do. Have you got a file on Speers?”
“Yes. It’s fairly extensive. Names and addresses of relatives and friends, everything you should need.”
“Suppose I find out she’s in Switzerland or South America. Do I go after her to serve the papers?”
“I’d have to discuss that with my client,” Brister said. “Let’s not worry about that bridge until we come to it.”
We settled on my skinny standard fee. After which I asked him a few more questions, signed a contract form he’d prepared, collected his file on Lauren Speers and a retainer check, and let him show me out. His hand was moist when he shook mine,- greed does that to some people. I scrubbed away the feel of him on my pantleg as I walked to my car.
It was noon by the time I got back to Drumm Street. Some of my funk was gone; I had my mind on business, instead of on Kerry, and things seemed a little brighter than they had earlier. I stopped at a cafe near my building, ate a pastrami sandwich, and then went to the office to earn my fee.
I spent fifteen minutes going over the Speers file. In addition to the names and addresses of relatives and friends, there were some newspaper clippings chronicling various activities: social stuff, parties she’d attended or given, a fund raising for a local congressman; accounts of her two divorces, one from a doctor named Colwell and the other from a businessman named Eason; a recent gossip column squib linking her romantically with a well-known Hollywood TV actor; an article dealing with an arrest for drunk driving a couple of years back, which had been newsworthy because she’d led two police cars a merry chase through the Marina. None of that told me much, except to confirm what Brister had led me to believe about her.
I dragged the phone over and dialed the number listed in the file for her home address, an exclusive section of Pacific Heights. A woman’s voice answered by saying, “The Speers residence.” I asked for Lauren Speers, and the woman said she was sorry, Ms. Speers was out of town, and I said I was calling for the well-known Hollywood TV actor mentioned in the gossip column squib, who was anxious to talk to Ms. Speers on a matter of urgent importance. Could she please tell me where Ms. Speers might be reached? She could not. She said she would pass along the message if Ms. Speers called or returned home; then she asked, a little coldly, for my name and number. At which point I thanked her for her time and hung up on her. So much for trying to be clever.
I called a guy I knew who worked for the Examiner, and through him I got to talk to the woman who edited the society page. I didn’t tell her I was a detective, which would have aroused her curiosity and got me nowhere; instead I said I was a writer who wanted to interview Speers. But I got nowhere with that, either. The society editor had no idea where Speers was, nor did she know of any upcoming special even
ts in or out of the city which Speers might be expected to attend. All I learned from her was that Speers was reputed to be writing a book, about what no one seemed to know,- she offered the opinion that maybe the book was the reason why the lady had dropped out of sight.
Using various cover stories, I made half a dozen more calls to Ms. Speers’s friends and relatives. The results were’ the same; if any of them knew where she was, they weren’t talking under any circumstances. I decided I needed a different approach and went back and reread Brister’s file, looking for an angle that I could pursue. I was still looking when George Hickox showed up for his three o’clock appointment.
He came in right on time; he was the type who would always be punctual. He was in his mid-thirties, brawny, heavy-featured, with styled black hair and a neat mustache, and he had a stiff-backed, vaguely supercilious air about him. His clothing was immaculate: dark three-piece suit, crisp white shirt with monogrammed cuff links, crisp blue tie with a monogrammed clip. The suit was of good quality, but it was not particularly expensive; the same was true of the cuff links and the tie clip and his polished black loafers. He may have represented money in the person of Mr. Clyde Mollenhauer, whoever he was, but he was not exactly wallowing in it himself.
I ushered him into the inner office and watched him look around before he took one of the clients’ chairs. His lip seemed to want to curl a little when he laid eyes on the Black Mask poster, but he managed to control the impulse. He sat stiff-backed, as I knew he would, and crossed one leg over the other and studied me the way he had the office. I must have passed inspection, because after a moment he nodded once and said, “What do you charge for your services?”
“That depends on what the service entails. I generally get two hundred dollars a day, plus expenses.”
“That would be satisfactory.”
“Just what is it your Mr. Mollenhauer wants guarded? Or should I say who?”
“No, it’s what. Wedding presents.”
“Pardon?”
“Wedding presents,” Hickox said again. “Mr. Mollenhauer’s daughter is being married on Saturday,- the reception will be held on his estate in Ross.”
Ross, I thought. Well, now. Ross was a little Marin County community a half-hour’s drive across the Golden Gate Bridge; it was also the kind of place that catered to people with a lot of anachronistic ideas about class and racial distinctions. They had a committee which screened applicants for pieces of their exorbitantly priced real estate. You could be as rich as King Midas, but if you did not measure up to certain rigid standards, or if you happened to be a member of a variety of ethnic groups, you would be hard-pressed to buy your way in.
Not that everybody who lived in Ross was a bigot or a snob, of course; most of the people were all right and had gravitated there for the prestige, the scenery, and the best police protection in the county. But the ones who controlled Ross were of a type, and the types they wanted to live with were their own. I wondered if Mr. Clyde Mollenhauer was one of those controlling forces. If he was, I was not going to enjoy working for him.
Hickox said, “The gifts are to be delivered prior to the church ceremony, by their respective givers. Mr. Mollenhauer anticipates a number of very expensive items among them.” “I see.”
“Your job will be to keep watch on them while everyone is away at the church and during the party afterward. You’ll be on duty from two o’clock until eight, when the bride and groom begin opening the presents.” “That’s fine.” “Do you carry a firearm?” “No. You want me to come armed?” “Mr. Mollenhauer would prefer it.” “Why? He’s not expecting trouble, is he?” “Of course not. It’s merely an added precaution.”
“All right. Whatever Mr. Mollenhauer wants.” “Yes,” Hickox said, “exactly.” “Is there anything else I should know?” “I believe that’s everything.” “Okay, then. It sounds simple enough.” “It should be, yes. Do you know Ross at all?” “I’m afraid not.”
“Mr. Mollenhauer’s estate is on Crestlawn Drive. Number eighty.” He went on to tell me how to get there, and I dutifully wrote down the directions on my notepad. “You’re to arrive by two o’clock,” he said. “Please be on time.”
“I will be.”
He nodded. “You’ll be paid at the end of your tour of duty. I trust that’s satisfactory.”
I said that it was. I got out one of the standard contract forms I use, filled it in, and asked Hickox to sign it as Clyde Mollenhauer’s agent. He did that, but not until he had read it over at least twice.
He stood up after he handed it back to me; I stood up with him. “Do you mind if I ask you a question, Mr. Hickox?”
“Yes?”
“Just who is Clyde Mollenhauer?”
He looked surprised. “You don’t know?”
“The name isn’t familiar, no.”
“Mr. Mollenhauer,” he said stiffly, “is one of the most important men in the computer industry. He owns several companies and several patents. He is also a leading figure in political circles.”
Good for him, I thought. And I’ll bet I know which side of the political fence he’s on, too. “It must be interesting,” I said, “working for a man like that.”
“Yes, it is. Very.”
“What is it you do for him, if you don’t mind my asking?”
He did mind my asking; his eyes said that. They also said that I was a little too inquisitive for my own good and that I would be wise if I remembered my place, whatever he thought that might be. “I am Mr.‘Mollenhauer’s personal secretary,” he said. And two seconds after that he said, “Good afternoon,” and took himself out of there without bothering to shake my hand.
“Nerts to you, big boy,” I said aloud. Then I sat down again and thought that it didn’t matter whether I liked Hickox or his employer; what did matter was that I liked two hundred dollars a day, plus expenses, for what sounded like a nice easy job. The odds were long against any unsavory types getting wind of a cache of wedding presents and trying to rip them off. So I could just sit on my ample duff, as Kerry had put it yesterday, and indulge Mr. Clyde Mollenhauer’s precautionary whim and make myself a nice fee for not much effort at all.
Jobs like that, and like the one Adam Blister had given me earlier, were not going to make me rich. But then, who wanted to be rich? Not me. Being rich meant owning an estate in Ross and hiring pompous male secretaries and worrying about thieves,- being rich meant drinking too much and driving recklessly in an expensive Porsche and getting sued by greedy-eyed lawyers.
Clyde Mollenhauer and Lauren Speers could have their lives, and welcome. Me, I liked being a poor private investigator with sixty-five hundred pulp magazines, a yen for a pretty lady, and a penchant for blue funks. I liked my life just fine, thank you, the way it was.
THREE
I spent another hour with the Speers file and the telephone, without much success. I did find reference in one of the recent social clippings to Speers having hired a personal secretary, one Bernice Dolan—lots of personal secretaries running around these days, I thought—and then discovered that there was no address or telephone number for anyone of that name in the file. So I checked the White Pages and found a listing for a Bernice Dolan in Cow Hollow, not far from Speers’s Pacific Heights residence. But when I called the number there was no answer. Three other calls to people on the list also drew blanks.
The file offered a couple of other possibilities, but they would require legwork. Finding La Speers was not going to be quite as simple as I’d hoped; at least, it didn’t look as though I could accomplish the task by sitting on my ample duff with the telephone. It was too late to start knocking on doors today, I decided. That was for tomorrow’s agenda.
At four-thirty I put the file away and dialed the Bates and Carpenter number. Fifteen seconds and one secretary later, Kerry’s voice said, “Hi,” in my ear.
“Hi. What’s new and exciting?”
“Nothing much.”
“Did you finish your presentation?”
“Yep. Last night, late.”
“And they loved it, right?”
“Wrong. They want me to redo it.”
“How come?”
“Problems with the concept, I’m told.”
“Sounds like a rough day.”
“You can say that again.”
“Sounds like a rough day.”
“Cute. Did anyone ever tell you you’re cute?”
“You did, grumpy.”
“Grumpy, yourself. How was your day?”
“Not bad. Two new clients.”
“That’s good. Beautiful rich ladies, no doubt.”
“One beautiful rich lady,” I said. “But I didn’t get to ogle her. She’s missing, and I’ve got to find her and serve her with a subpoena. She’s being sued because she likes to play reckless games with her Porsche.”
“Who’s the other client?”
“A guy named Clyde Mollenhauer. He has an estate in Ross.”
“Mollenhauer? No kidding?”
“You know him?”
“Sure. A VIP. Why does he want a private eye?”
“No big deal,” I said. “His daughter’s getting married on Saturday and I get to guard the wedding gifts.”
“You’re coming up in the world, my friend. Hobnobbing with the rich and the famous.”
“Uh-huh. Listen, I could use a beer, and I’ll bet you could use something even stronger. Why don’t I meet you at the Hyatt? Then we’ll go have dinner—”
“I can’t, “she said.
“How come?”
“Jim Carpenter is taking me to dinner tonight. He wants to talk about the presentation.”
“Going out with the boss, huh? Is he the good-looking one?”
“Yes. Are you jealous?”
“Hell, no,” I lied. “I’d just like to see you, that’s all.”
“Maybe tomorrow night. I’ll have to call you.”
“I’ll probably be in and out all day. If I’m not here, just leave a message.”
Nameless 08 Scattershot Page 2
